


The British Government Who Came To Tea

by Galadriel1010



Series: Tea and a Listening Ear in Chiswick [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Family, Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Mycroft Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade is the sort of person who brings drug addicts home to sleep it off in his spare bedroom, and his wife is the sort of person who actively encourages him. When Sherlock Holmes blunders into one of his crime scenes, Mycroft finally gets the allies he desperately needs. One older sibling was never going to be enough to keep Sherlock safe, but between three of them they might just manage it.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Greg Lestrade's Wife
Series: Tea and a Listening Ear in Chiswick [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936702
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. 2005

**Author's Note:**

> I decided the world needed (I needed) a Mrs Lestrade who's more sympathetic than the usual. Then I accidentally fell in love with her.
> 
> Actively taking applications for my own Mrs Lestrade, just saying.

Emma Lestrade was woken by an unfamiliar ring tone, early enough that when she managed to crack her eyes open the bedroom was still in pitch darkness. She burrowed deeper under the duvet whilst next to her, Greg managed to get the phone off charge and answer it before the caller gave up.

“Hi,” he rumbled, voice thick with sleep. “This is Greg Lestrade…” There was a pause, and she could just about hear someone on the other end of the phone. She grunted to let him know she was already awake and felt him settle back into the pillows. “Yeah, he’s safe. Kipping in my spare room. What did you say your name was? Alright, Mycroft… Yeah, no, it’s fine. Where are you? Do you want me to come and get you? I’ll be there in half an hour… Yeah, good point. Alright, I’ll put the kettle on. No, it’s fine mate. I’m just glad someone’s looking out for him. Sure, I’ll see you soon.”

Through the call his voice had got steadier and clearer, and when he hung up, he rolled over to kiss her cheek. “Sherlock’s brother. Been looking for him all night.”

She grumbled a response, then smothered a yawn in the back of her hand and tried again. “What time is it?”

“Half five. Go back to sleep.”

“Nuh.” Her eyes slipped closed again. “Later than I thought. You want the shower first?”

“All yours love. Coffee?”

Emma smiled into the pillow. “Black as your soul.”

She cracked one eye open again to watch him shuffle round the room in his joggers and felt her heart ache with how much she loved him. By the time he returned, still damp and towelling his hair from the shower, she was sitting up in bed and rubbing at stinging eyes. “No movement from our visitor,” he told her cheerfully. “He’s snoring though.”

“That’s good. He looked like he needed the sleep.”

“For a start, yeah.” He pulled on jeans and one of his well-worn band T shirts quickly and paused by her side of the bed to kiss her. “Coffee coming up.”

“I’ll jump in the shower first.”

The knock at the door came whilst she was still in the shower, and by the time she got downstairs Greg and their new visitor were already sitting at the kitchen table with their hands wrapped around mugs of coffee. She paused in the doorway to get a good look at him. Smartly dressed, almost fastidious, but still in the previous day’s suit. Family, who’d have one? She smothered another yawn and made for the ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mug sitting on the side, full of coffee so sweet and milky it was virtually a milkshake, just the way she liked it. “Morning, loves.”

“Good morning, Mrs Lestrade. I’m sorry for waking you at this hour. If I’d known…”

She waved his apologies away. “Don’t worry about it, pet. I’m glad you found him.”

“Not as glad as I am that you found him.” He sighed, heavily. “Sherlock is…”

He didn’t seem to know what Sherlock was. Emma watched him and wondered how old he was. Older than Sherlock, clearly, but how much older? A job on the Square Mile or in Westminster, judging by the suit, and still trying to keep his younger brother out of the gutter. She hummed into her coffee and caught Greg’s eye before she could get started properly. “Sorry love.”

“Morning from the Peer Gynt Suite by Edvard Grieg,” Mycroft observed. He smiled at her. “A regular?”

She chuckled. “On heavy repeat at the moment, shall we say.” Her eyes flickered to Greg, who was grinning. “Better than the Immigrants Song at six in the morning. Speaking of which, breakfast? I’ll do pancakes, use up a couple of those eggs. Unless you’re vegan, or…”

“Me?” He looked surprised. “No, I’m not, but…”

“I know that look, love. You’ve not eaten since you realised he was missing, have you?” She smiled at him reassuringly.

Greg huffed a laugh at Mycroft’s expression of utter bewilderment. “Sherlock’s not our first ‘houseguest’. Although you’re the first relative to come looking. Makes a nice change to be honest.”

“You regularly bring home drug addicts?”

“It sounds weirder than it is when you put it like that,” Greg admitted, rubbing at his jaw. “Given a choice between a night in the cells and a night in our spare room, most people fare better with the latter, you know? Good night’s sleep, hot shower and her cooking, it’ll do anyone the world of good.”

Emma laughed. “I keep telling him I’d be happy with a kitten.”

“And instead you got my brother. For whom I can only apologise.”

Greg shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Nothing to apologise for, mate.”

“Yet,” Mycroft said delicately. “Sherlock can be… indelicate.”

Somehow, Emma got the impression that that was not an adjective that could ever be ascribed to his brother. She finished off the pancake batter, or as finished as it was going to get at that time of the morning when she wasn’t willing to use the electric whisk, and checked on the frying pan. “Lemon and sugar alright? Or we have jams. There’s that cherry one I got from the Christmas market still needs eating, love.”

“Sugar and lemon’ll be fine.” Greg levered himself to his feet and went to collect both from the cupboard. “You’re still really confused, aren’t you?”

Mycroft laughed. “I work in Westminster. Human kindness is a quality I am sadly unaccustomed to.”

Well, that answered that question. “I think we all are these days, pet. Still, we do our best, don’t we?” She shuffled round and beckoned Greg over. “Can you do the honours, love?” Greg flipped the pancake, expertly as always, and preened when she kissed his cheek. “Knew I kept you around for a reason.”

He gave her a fond look. “What you’re saying is that I’m a tosser?”

She rolled her eyes and took over from him again. “Yes dear.”

They were just finishing eating when a thud from upstairs indicated movement. Greg raised his eyebrows in some surprise and got up. “I’ll go see if he’s awake. Throw him in the shower if he is.”

Mycroft looked nervous, so Emma did her best to reassure him. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know. He always is.” His fingers flexed around his mug, now refilled with tea because there was such a thing as too much coffee that early in the morning. “Was there a piece of paper in his pocket?”

“I don’t know. I think Greg just grabbed his phone. Why?”

He sighed. “He always writes me a list of what he’s taken. So I know whether…”

She got to her feet. “I’ll go and check his coat pockets.”

There was a wallet, a set of keys and a scrap of paper in one of the pockets. For some reason there was also Greg’s warrant card. She brought the wallet and the paper over and handed them to Mycroft. “I don’t know if what you need is in there.”

He slid his thumb into the fold of the paper almost cautiously, and his eyes slid closed with a heavy sigh when he’d seen what was on it. “Thank you.” His long fingers were almost steady as he folded it closed and then in half again. “Idiot.”

“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Greg clattered down the stairs at just that moment. Whatever he’d found it obviously hadn’t worried him, because he’d stopped to get changed. “Still snoring. I think he turned over and knocked the bottle of water off. No harm done.”

“He’s alright?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine.” Greg looked between them. “Everything okay down here?”

Mycroft nodded quickly, a sharp, jerky motion. “My brother is…” He sighed. “I cannot thank you enough for looking after him yesterday and…”

He stuttered to a halt again, so Emma reached over to squeeze his arm gently. “He’s alright, pet. We’re glad we could help.”

Greg leaned in the doorway and watched Mycroft fish for words again. “You didn’t sleep all night, did you? We’ve got another spare room if you want to crash out. Don’t think we’ve got anything that’ll fit you, but…”

“I couldn’t… I should wait for Sherlock and get him home.”

“He’s not waking up for hours, and he’s no trouble when he’s asleep.” Greg rubbed at his eyes. “I’ve got work, but Emma will be home. You can either stay here, or you can get yourself home and come back when you’re feeling more human. Sherlock will be fine.”

He rested his head in his hands and eventually nodded. “Thank you. A change of clothes would help.”

Greg nodded. “Alright. You want a lift? I’m going as far as Westminster anyway.”

“I… yes, thank you.”

“Give me your phone number, love, and I’ll call you when he wakes up, alright?” She got up to pass him a pen and paper. “I’ll give you mine in case you need it. And if you come over this evening, whatever happens, I’ll do enough for four.”

Greg chuckled. “She always does.”

“I can do enough for three instead,” she said lightly, “if you don’t want any.”

He just laughed. Between them, Mycroft still looked bewildered. In the end he seemed to accept that going with the flow was the easiest option, and even managed a smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

“There’s nothing needs to be said love. Except that you’re coming for dinner.”

He still looked so confused, so Greg took pity on him. “If you’re coming with me, we’d better motor I’m afraid. Do you want to check on Sherlock before we go?”

“No, I’ll take your word for it.” For a moment he looked like the lost big brother whose pride and joy, or greatest frustration, or both, was upstairs sleeping off a frankly inhuman amount of drugs in a stranger’s spare bedroom. It only lasted a second though before he pulled on a mask of composure and calm. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

Greg crossed the kitchen to kiss Emma goodbye and grab his wallet off the side. “I’ll call you if I’m going to be late back. Shouldn’t be a late one, though. We’ve got nothing to go on at the moment.” A thoughtful look crossed his face before he shook it away. “Enjoy your marking.”

“Piss off,” she told him fondly. “I’m going back to bed for a couple of hours. Have a nice day at work, darling.”

She locked the door behind the pair of them, stacked the breakfast things in the dishwasher and put the leftover pancake batter in the fridge, and trudged upstairs to do just that. Sherlock was still snoring in the spare room when she passed, and she poked her head in just for a second to check on him. It was hard to make out anything in the low light. When she did crawl back into bed, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, and wondering what had happened to the pair of them to wash them up on her doorstep.

Sherlock actually woke up just after lunch, when she was up to her eyeballs in the Industrial Revolution According to Year 8. She poured him into the shower, rang Mycroft, made him pancakes and then more pancakes because he was famished, stared at him blankly whilst he told her all about Greg’s latest case, then told him to go back to bed until Greg got home so he could tell him that himself. He stared at her, or through her, and then did as he was told without a word. Mycroft texted her to say he’d be over earlier than planned but later than he’d like, and she texted back to tell him it was fine, Sherlock had gone back to bed.

Other than that, the day stretched out around her quietly like the school holidays usually did. She got a load of washing done, cleared two stacks of marking, caught up on the ironing and a documentary at the same time, prepared the lasagne for dinner, and even mopped the kitchen floor. As a result she was feeling pretty virtuous when the knock on the door came at precisely 5.30, as Mycroft had arranged, and she opened it to find him holding a bottle of wine awkwardly. “A token of my appreciation,” he told her before she could say anything. “I know you don’t need it, but I do.”

“To do something, or drink yourself silly?” She accepted the bottle from him and beckoned him in. “Come on. Sherlock’s still asleep upstairs. Living room for now, kitchen floor is still wet. Cuppa? Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, thank you.”

She made up two mugs and left the third ready for when Greg got back, and when she brought them through to the living room she found Mycroft perusing the bookshelf. “Here we are.”

“Thank you. You have an interesting collection.”

“That’s the plan. Well, I’m trying very hard not to collect books. Somewhat failing.”

He smiled. “A common affliction. What do you think of Ackroyd’s London?”

“It’s a classic for a reason. Hard to find anything in there that hasn’t been covered in more detail by someone else, but as a starting point you can’t go wrong.” She handed him his mug and joined him. “Have you heard about the Mithreum project?”

They settled into idle conversation about the city’s history, and not just the gruesome bits that Greg favoured. Emma was starting to wonder if there was anything Mycroft didn’t know when Greg got home, grumbling about a sudden turn in the weather and bearing baked goods from the regular charity stall in the office. There was even the sound of movement from upstairs, so she dispatched him upstairs to shower, change and fetch Sherlock whilst she set the table for four and then hunted for her glasses. “This wine, Mycroft, do you think it’ll go with lasagne? I think I left my glasses in the living room and I can’t read writing this small.”

He followed her into the kitchen a second later and handed her her glasses. “I should think so, although it’ll be wasted on Sherlock.”

“Thanks pet. Oh, you do know your wines don’t you?” She fished the corkscrew out of a drawer and opened it carefully.

“You’re not a wine fan?”

“I like to drink it, but I outsource the thinking to Greg. Speaking of whom…”

There were two sets of footsteps down the stairs this time, one heavier than the other, and Emma noticed the way Mycroft’s shoulders tensed at the approach. Sherlock was in full flow, berating Greg about his crime scene, and stopped mid-sentence when he entered the kitchen and saw Mycroft. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft held up the folded slip of paper. “You are here, brother dear. Where else would I be?”

They glared at each other across the kitchen, but Sherlock eventually backed down and looked around. “Well I… Wait, are you staying for dinner?”

“You both are,” Emma told him. “Sit down, you’re making the place look untidy.”

“And no talking about dead bodies over the dinner table,” Greg told Sherlock firmly. “Emma’s got a delicate stomach; she doesn’t like it.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s taking the piss. But still no talking about dead bodies over the dinner table.”

When she turned back, lasagne dish cradled carefully in her oven gloves, Sherlock’s eyes were flickering over the kitchen. “You don’t have children,” he said. “Why?”

There was the solid thump of someone being kicked under the table and Emma managed a smile at his outraged expression. “Life got in the way,” she said simply, setting the dish down in the middle of the table. “Greg, can you do the honours whilst I…”

He did as he was told, and she got the garlic bread, coleslaw and salad. There were daggers passing backwards and forwards between the brothers, but Mycroft’s glare kept Sherlock quiet for a while at least. Emma and Mycroft lapsed back into their conversation about London, and Greg chimed in occasionally with sporting facts and murders. When they’d eaten, Mycroft thanked them again, profusely, and finally took Sherlock home. Wherever that was.

Emma pulled the curtains across in the living room and drifted back to join Greg on the sofa, where he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in to cuddle against him. She hummed happily. “They’re nice boys,” she murmured, sleepy from good food and excellent wine. “Funny, though.”

“Mycroft’s nice. Sherlock is an arse.” He tucked her head under his chin and wrapped both arms around her. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of them, love.”

“You definitely haven’t. You’ve got a murder to solve with Sherlock.”

He chuckled. “Early night, or documentary on Roman history?”

“Oh, Roman history.” She smiled and sat up to look at him. “Have I told you lately that you’re a wonderful man and I’m the luckiest woman in the world?”

“Couple of days ago, as it happens.”

“Well, it’s still true.” She leaned in and kissed him. “I just don’t want you to forget it.”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, who had settled into the passenger seat and wrapped himself in his coat to sulk. It was always a waiting game, and usually not a long one with Sherlock. He could never restrain himself for long. Sure enough, they’d barely got onto the main road before he turned back to Mycroft and returned to glaring at him. “What were you doing there?”

“I was there to collect you.”

“You were there for dinner!”

He sighed. “Sherlock. What were you doing there?”

“Lestrade dragged me off the crime scene and marched me in there.”

“That doesn’t explain why you stayed,” he pointed out.

“It doesn’t explain why you were sitting around in their kitchen talking about books instead of just marching me right back out of there.”

Mycroft inclined his head, willing to concede that point. “That was because of the tea.”

“No tea is that good.”

“It was dreadful,” he agreed. “They keep Twinings in but gave me PG Tips. What does that tell you?”

“That they don’t like you, obviously, and quite logically.”

He smiled absently. “On the contrary. They keep Twinings in for guests, likely their parents, people from work, neighbours. But they gave me what they drink instead. Either a deliberate choice to make me feel like I was not imposing on them, or, strange as it might seem, merely a reflection that they don’t think I was.”

“I’m not the first stray they’ve taken home.”

He nodded and spared his brother a glance. “How do you know?”

“Their spare bedroom. There’s a basket of toiletries, not stuff for regular guests, things that people can slip into a pocket or handbag if they need to. Small tins of deodorant and shampoo, bars of soap, sanitary pads, condoms, there was even a pregnancy test in there. Then there’s the bedside table drawer. There’s a copy of the bible in there but none in the rest of the house, and it’s shoved right to the back. There if people want it because they think they might, but not prominent because although they’ve been told it can help they don’t understand why. Instead there’s a stack of fliers, Alcoholics Anonymous, Gamblers Anonymous, a rape crisis centre, an LGBT youth outreach project. Anything they think might help, shoved in there just in case. And then there’s this.” He whipped out a folded A5 sheet and waved it in Mycroft’s face despite the traffic. “A home printed flier with all the useful numbers I could possibly need, including theirs.”

Mycroft hummed and pushed Sherlock’s hand out of the way before he had to change gear for the next set of lights. “The Jane Doe case must have affected him more than he’s willing to admit.”

“What Jane Doe case?”

“Sergeant Lestrade was the first on the scene following the particularly brutal murder of a young woman a few years back. Neither she nor her killer was ever identified. There was some criticism that the police investigation seemed perfunctory. It appears our Detective Sergeant agreed.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and glared at the lights, willing them to change. “He’s willing to listen to you on this case?”

Sherlock huffed. “Yes, thankfully. Clearly he’s less idiotic than everyone else at the Yard.”

“Then I suggest you begin with Jane Doe.”

“Find the killer?”

He smiled. “No, Sherlock, find her. Stop him if you can, but find her.”

Wrapped in his coat, all pale angles and dark tousled curls, Sherlock looked bewildered and angry, as he always was when he didn’t understand something. “Why? Surely catching her killer is what really matters.”

“Because Lestrade cares. It is important to him.” They finally got onto the main road, where he could put his foot down at this time of night and speed them both out of town towards his house, where Sherlock would be safe for at least a day or two. “And for god’s sake, don’t tell him I told you.”


	2. 2006

A grey dawn was beginning to creep across London, glittering off glass and steel, when steady footsteps down the corridor roused Mycroft from his near-doze. He glanced at the clock, noticed that another hour had passed, and beside him Lestrade stretched with a groan Mycroft felt in his bones. The steps rounded the corner, and Emma Lestrade approached like a vision in blue, bearing two travel mugs and a paper bag. He was both surprised and unsurprised when, having greeted Greg with a kiss and one of the travel mugs, she pressed the other and the bag into Mycroft’s hands. “Mycroft, love. Are you alright?”

“Fine, thank you Mrs Lestrade.” He smiled at her fond glare. “Sorry Emma.”

She just tutted and turned back to her husband. “And Sherlock?”

“Pain in my ass, and going to stay that way.” He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder, just a fleeting touch. “I’d better get off. Call me if anything changes, yeah?”

“Of course,” Emma said before Mycroft could. “Your breakfast’s in the microwave.”

He left them to it and Emma drifted to the window. She was casually dressed in comfy jeans and a soft blue jumper, dark smudges under her eyes that she hadn’t bothered trying to hide with make-up. It was barely after six and she didn’t strike him as a morning person. Still, when he joined her at the window she smiled at him and looked down at the bag in his hand. “You don’t eat when you’re worrying about him.”

“I haven’t stopped worrying.”

“Do you ever?” Her smile was the sort of gentle you didn’t get in Westminster. “Try and get some more shut-eye, love. They won’t let you in to see him until seven, then when they kick us out again I’ll take you back to ours, get some more sleep into you if you can manage it. Are you supposed to be working today?”

He blinked at her and shook his head slowly. “No, although if anything comes up...”

“Its already come up, love. Let them know you’re out of action for a bit, then you don’t have to think of it once Sherlock wakes up, and then close your eyes.”

For whatever reason, he did as he was told. He ate, drank the tea, even managed to doze off enough that Emma had to wake him with a gentle hand on his shoulder when seven o'clock ticked round. He thanked her as profusely as he could and stumbled into the ward. It was near silent still, with most of the patients still waking up and the few families there filing in with him keeping their voices down. Sherlock was awake, at least, groggy and unpleasant. He snarled through a series of lacklustre insults in lieu of greeting, and tried to explain his errors in calculation, insisted that the problem was that he hadn’t factored in not having eaten. Mycroft balled his hands into fists to keep them still until his nails left crescent moon cuts in his palms.

In the car it finally occurred to him to ask what Emma was doing there, why he was in her car heading back to her house, but by that time it was a bit too late. Instead he watched her grumbling at the traffic that refused to let her pull out, read her life story in the set of her shoulders and the way she tucked her hair behind her ear every time it came loose. Settled for asking, “How many siblings do you have?”

“Is it that obvious?” she asked with a laugh. The traffic finally relented and she seized her opportunity. “One sister, lots of cousins. And then when I met Greg, I sort of took his sister under my wing as well.”

“You do that to a lot of people.”

She glanced over at him. “Guilty as charged. Not complaining, I hope?”

“No, merely…” He settled back in his seat and sighed. “Surprised, I suppose. Although I suppose Sherlock does bring out the protective, nurturing instincts in people. Rather like a baby cuckoo in that respect.”

The look he got for that remark was impenetrable, even to him. She shook her head and turned back to concentrate on the road. “What about your parents?”

He sighed. “They are in America on a line dancing road trip, believe it or not.” That got a surprised laugh out of her and even he managed a smile. “The apple could not have fallen much further from the tree in our case. They are flying back as soon as they can, I expect them to land either late tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Another long day for you then.”

“Yes, I…” He stumbled over the thoughts, the plans that needed to be made, the sheer lack of sleep from the last few days. It was so much easier to be told what to do and do it. “Thank you, for everything. You didn’t have to.”

“Someone did, or you’d have gone on until you collapsed.” She spared him a glance, nothing more, and he wondered what she made of him. “Greg made the spare room up this morning when he got back. We’ll sort out getting you back to yours in time to pick your parents up after you’ve slept and eaten more than a bacon sandwich.”

Mycroft smiled. “You’ve done this before.”

“I’ve had all sorts of middle of the night phone calls. Comes of being the big sister. The 2am pick-ups, the locked out of the flat, the arsehole boyfriend. Even the ‘shit, Em, there’s two lines on this pregnancy test where there should only be one ’.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and then flicked the indicator on to turn left. “You haven’t.”

“I still haven’t. I didn’t need to.”

She reached over and squeezed his wrist. “No, love, you didn’t.”

His parents got in at five the following morning, straight off a 12 hour broken journey from Oklahoma City to New York and across to London. Genevieve made straight for her elder son, ploughing past anyone in her way, already well on the warpath. “Mycroft, what happened? We were gone barely a week and now this…”

Mycroft did his best not to bristle, or to laugh at the ludicrous suggestion that their presence in the country had done anything to keep Sherlock out of harm’s way. He took her bag instead, and schooled his face into an expression of regretful concern. “Unfortunately even I cannot keep an eye on Sherlock at all times.”

“Well, he’s coming home with us. Today.” She strode at his side, only not leaving him behind because he knew where the car was parked. “We’ll look after him.”

He forced a smile. “Of course. I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to be back in the bosom of his family.”

“I can tell when you’re being sarcastic, young man,” she snapped. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

So early in the morning it was only an hour’s drive to the centre of London, and then Mycroft had to hold them off from barging into the ward for another half hour, achieved with a quick and disappointing breakfast at a café around the corner from the hospital. They were back in the waiting room before the clock struck seven still, and Mycroft was finally stopped short in the doorway by a familiar figure drinking from a familiar travel mug and reading through the noticeboard he must have seen a thousand times before. Despite the early hour, Greg greeted him with a bright smile when he entered. “Morning, Mycroft. And you must be their parents?”

Mycroft pulled a face at him when he was sure neither of them could see and made the introductions. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, my parents Genevieve and Sigur Holmes. Mother, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, a… friend of ours.”

“Really?” Mother shook Greg’s hand and gave him a very thorough once-over. “You’re here to see Sherlock, then?”

“Yeah. In a professional capacity this time, though. Apparently someone,” he said, tipping his thumb towards the ward door, “disturbed my crime scene before the SOCOs got there. They’re not right pleased, but if that gives me Sherlock Holmes as an actual witness I’ll put up with their grumbling. I’m hoping he saw something we missed.”

Mummy’s expression pinched like she’d bitten a lemon, rind and all. “I see.”

Greg did not miss it. “Yeah, well, not the most urgent. I just said I’d get down here on my way in. I’ll let you three see him first.”

“Go ahead,” Mycroft told them. “I’d like a word with Greg before I join you.”

They didn’t need further invitation, and a moment later Mycroft was alone with Greg, who just chuckled when Mycroft leaned back against the wall and groaned. “Does your family have a setting between 0 and 10?”

“They don’t even have a 0. It’s all or all with the Holmeses, I’m afraid.”

Greg’s hand landed on his shoulder again, warm and familiar, and he looked along his arm to find Greg watching him with concern. “Look after yourself, mate. I know all the focus is going to be on Sherlock for a bit, but don’t trade his health for yours.”

“I will do my best,” he assured him. “I need to hire myself an Emma.”

“Well, you know where she is if you need her.”

Yet again he was struck nearly speechless. “Thank you. You really are extraordinarily kind.”

Greg laughed, rubbed at his jaw. “Never been told that before. Look, you should come round for dinner sometime anyway. Leave Sherlock at home and come talk history with Emma. I can’t keep up with her, she expects a higher quality of conversation these days and all I’ve got is murders.”

It was easy to laugh with him, easy to accept. “I’ll brush up on my Neolithic then, and perhaps when Sherlock is settled again…”

“Yeah, definitely. Give us a call.”

“I will, thank you.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I should join them. Wish me luck. Oh, and Greg… congratulations on the promotion. It was very well deserved.”

His face lit up, like Mycroft’s impression of him mattered. “Thanks, mate. Nice to know I can help, you know?”

Mycroft smiled back at him, and still hadn’t found an answer by the time he was surrounded by his family, dial turned up to 12 once more.


	3. 2007

Anthea turned a page in her journal and nodded thoughtfully. “The arrangements for next month’s summit are all in place, sir. I’ve added the details to your calendar.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” She’d been an invaluable addition to his life and taken half the strain of managing his existence, allowing him far greater freedom to involve himself more deeply in his work. The other half of the strain, the Sherlock half, had also been lessened somewhat, but hadn’t quite been banished. He remained the one strain that Anthea couldn’t smooth away.

She followed his line of thought as usual. “Should I contact your parents, sir? Sherlock might be best staying with them for a while.”

“No. Even they don’t deserve that.” He raised his eyebrows and stared into the middle distance. “I could always put him in a cattery.”

“My sister uses one in Pinner. Says they’re very reliable with feeding, grooming and medication if required.” He levelled her with a glare and she just smiled down at her journal. “Although if you need him exercising, a kennel might be better.”

He’d rather set that one up, so he could hardly complain. And really, it wasn’t the worst idea. “Actually, there’s one in Chiswick that might be suitable.”

It only took a moment for the penny to drop. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir?”

“No, my dear. Mrs Lestrade.”

He drove himself for a change and pulled up on the road outside because the driveway was full, whilst his security detail watched from a little further down the road. The house was the same as ever, neat, tidy and nondescript, but when he knocked at the door it was opened by an unfamiliar woman with a toddler on her hip. Dark eyes and dark, wildly curling hair shot through with silver marked a family resemblance with Greg, and when she raised her eyebrow at him the resemblance increased further. She looked him up and down. “Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“Ah… neither…”

“Here to see the vicar then?” She opened the door further, stopped a small girl racing out into the street past him and beckoned him in. “Emma, Jehovah’s Witnesses for you.”

“Do they want a cuppa?” Emma called back from somewhere inside.

Greg’s sister rolled her eyes. “And that’s why we call her the vicar. Come on in, or the brats will all escape. Tom,” she yelled as she turned on her heel, “I thought you were keeping an eye on your cousin?”

Mycroft was picking his way through a pile of shoes in the front hall when Emma emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and caught sight of him. Surprise was quickly replaced with gratifying pleasure when she saw him. “Mycroft! Wasn’t expecting you. Sorry about the mess,” she said, although she clearly wasn’t. “Come on through, we’ll use the dining room.”

“If this is a bad time…”

“Nonsense.” There clearly wasn’t such a thing as a bad time for Emma. She pulled off her apron and hung it over the back of a chair as she steered him into the dining room. It wasn’t a room he’d ever seen before, despite the number of times he’d visited over the last two years. A large dresser took up most of one wall, full of commemorative plates and the Wedgewood dinner service they’d probably received as a wedding present, and the dining table was big enough to seat eight people comfortably, twelve at a squeeze. “We don’t often need a table this big,” she told him, even as she waved him into a seat. “Except for jigsaws.”

There was a half finished one spread over half the table. Mycroft glanced at the box lid and smiled. “Wonders of the world.”

“Two thousand pieces. Greg got it me for Christmas, I started it on Boxing Day.” Emma laughed. “I might finish it this year. Oh, tea!”

“It’s quite alright, this is only a flying visit. I wouldn’t want to impose on you when you have so little time with the children,” he said, and the twinkle in her eye said that she understood what he meant. “I came to ask a favour, I’m afraid.”

“Whatever you need, pet, you know that.”

He smiled. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“And you wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t the right person for the job,” she told him. “Is it Sherlock?”

“Isn’t it always?” Mycroft sighed. “I have a summit to attend next month. It’s in Europe so I will only be a few hours away, and yet…”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “We’ll keep an eye on him, pet. He’ll be fine, though. He’s been doing well.”

“He has. I can only apologise for the frequent break-ins.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, love. As long as he keeps taking things from the fridge instead of leaving them there.” She laughed when he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did Greg tell you about the hand?”

He groaned. “Yes, at length over dinner. I deserved it.” She was still laughing at him, which he thought he also deserved. “Why do you put up with us?”

“I put up with Sherlock in exchange for someone to talk to about the Neolithic.” She grinned at him. “Speaking of which, I won’t ask you to stay for dinner with this rabble, but you’ll come round some time?”

“I’d be delighted,” he told her, quite honestly. “We’ll try to arrange something before I leave.”

He managed to sneak it in, just two days before his flight, between the million other things that had to be done before the summit. It was another balmy summer evening, the street echoing with the sounds of children playing in the gardens hidden behind the houses, and he let his driver drop him off outside this time, then waited for the car to leave before he headed up the drive to the door. Greg opened it before he could knock and greeted him with a tired smile. “Mycroft, hi. Thought I’d better head you off before her indoors saw your car. And warn you that your brother is here.”

He stopped short. “Sherlock is here?”

“Do you have another brother? Please don’t tell me there’s two of him.”

Mycroft fought down the shudder and told the truth. “No, Sherlock is my only brother, thank God. What is he doing here?”

“Well, he said you invited him, but I’m getting better at telling when he’s bullshitting me these days.” He opened the door further and inclined his head. “Come on in. I promise, there’s no screaming kids around this time. Well, only the one.”

“I heard that,” Sherlock called. “Hi big brother.”

Mycroft handed Greg the bottle of wine he’d brought and sighed. “What are you doing here?”

“You invited me. Or, well, you left your diary on your desk when I broke into your office that time, but it’s sort of the same thing. I thought as the Lestrades are babysitting me whilst you’re away, I should stop by.” He grinned, and Mycroft wanted to scream. “Besides, it’s the last chance I have to see my big brother before he heads off for a thrilling conference in Geneva.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, try not to be too much of a prick, alright? Now come on, before we all get told off for nattering in the hall.”

The kitchen still bore signs of a recent invasion of children. There were new pictures on the fridge, a clear plastic box contained the sort of iced buns that looked like they’d been decorated by a toddler, and there was a toy elephant sitting on top of the bread bin. Greg caught him looking and reached over for it, and easy grin on his face. “Benefits of living in London, we always have a houseful over summer. My cousin’s little one left this behind when she visited.”

“Don’t you need to get it back to her?”

“Nah. She’s got another half a dozen identical. Trick my sister came up with when her eldest left Kermit in a sandpit somewhere.” He moved out of Emma’s way when she flicked him with a towel. “It’s been nice to hang out with people my own mental age for a change.”

She rolled her eyes. “You should have seen him yesterday afternoon. Water fight in the garden, he ended up muddier than all the kids put together. Can you get the breadboard out, love? Tea, Mycroft?”

He felt Sherlock’s smirk before he saw it and elected to ignore him. “Thank you, Emma.”

“I’ve got it,” Greg told her. “You go flap at the cooker.”

That earned him another flick of the towel, but she did as he suggested and opened the oven to release a rich aroma of spices and tomatoes. Mycroft caught Sherlock looking at him and elected to head him off before the jibes could start. “So, not left any body parts in anyone’s fridges lately?”

“I have my own at Bart’s Hospital. Doctor Stamford brings me in from time to time to scare his students, and I get the use of the fridge in exchange. It’s been very useful.” He caught Emma’s eye and feigned innocence. “Actually, I’ve been working on a thesis on cigarette ash. I’ve catalogued every different brand available in the UK, and most of them from Europe. But if you’re doing a duty-free run, there’s a couple you might be able to pick up for me on your little trip.”

“I can certainly fetch you some interesting cigars,” he offered, “if it’ll keep you quiet for a while.”

He actually looked excited by the prospect. “Oh, that’s an idea. Not that the sort of people who smoke cigars often commit the sort of crimes anyone gets to investigate.”

“I’ll steal you an ashtray from my club, see what you can deduce about its users.”

Emma leaned back on the counter to look at them. “How does it work? You read me like an open book, Sherlock. It is hard or…”

“Rather like a book, actually,” Mycroft said, sliding in before Sherlock could stick his foot in it. “If the page is before you, you cannot help but read the words, although you may need to concentrate for meaning to become clear.”

“And you’ve got a bigger vocabulary than us?” Greg guessed. “Must be weird. Or I guess not, if it’s normal for you. Kinda flattering that you didn’t take one look at us and run screaming, though.”

Sherlock chuckled into his tea, whilst Greg set another mug down in front of Mycroft. “Most people would have told us to piss off by now.”

He rolled his eyes. “I keep telling you to piss off, it never works.”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and frowned. “You’ve changed your brand.”

“What love? Oh, yeah, we decided to try the Yorkshire Hard Water blend.” She planted both hands on Greg’s hips to move him out of her way and he rolled his eyes at her behind her back. “Apparently it’s good if you get your water from the aquifers. Shona who teaches Geography was telling me.”

“Now there’s a disaster waiting to happen,” Mycroft murmured. “Thankfully, that will be someone else’s problem to deal with.” He smiled when she looked at him curiously. “Climate Change mitigation planning has, alas, become a part of my portfolio. It’s rather a case of leaving clear notes for future officials to follow.”

She sighed. “It’s all a mess, isn’t it? What are we doing to the world?” The oven beeped behind her and she grabbed the oven gloves. “Go back to talking about murders, love, it was more cheerful.”

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that told him under no circumstances was he to start talking about murders, and thanked the stars when he instead started explaining how he’d go about stealing the Mona Lisa.

They left several hours later, after an excellent curry and fruit brûlée, several bottles of wine between them and surprisingly pleasant conversation. Mycroft offered Sherlock a lift home, and they strolled down the road towards the waiting car. The pleasant atmosphere couldn’t last, of course, and Mycroft could feel Sherlock lining the barbs up. He waited until they reached the car, though, and paused with his hand on the door. “Do they know what you do? Or do they really think you’re just some cabinet office pencil pusher?”

He smiled mildly. “Detective Inspector Lestrade is well aware of my position. And that is the way I’d like to keep it.”

“Why?”

“Because I very rarely get invited to dinner by people who want nothing more from me than my company.” He shrugged. “Such is Westminster.”

Sherlock smirked and slid into the car without explaining his amusement. After counting to ten, Mycroft joined him and fastened his seatbelt, biting his tongue on every question. They were barely moving before Sherlock’s patience ran out. “Which of them do you fancy?”

“Grow up.”

“You hate people, though. You think they’re stupid and tedious. Why would you want to spend dinner with them?”

He sighed. “This is why I work for the government and you’ve been fired from every job you’ve ever held within three days.”

“No, you don’t just tolerate their presence for some personal gain. You don’t need to; you know they’d look out for me whether you asked them to or not.” He laughed and looked out of the window. “You actually like them.”

“Is that so hard to believe? My day to day existence is a pit of vipers. Yours is mostly murderers and their victims.” He shuddered. “I’d even take their various nieces and nephews over most of my colleagues, quite frankly.”

Sherlock laughed. “They aren’t so bad when you get to know them.”

“Children?”

“Serial killers.”

“Sherlock…” He sighed. “You’ll keep yourself out of trouble whilst I’m gone?”

He rolled his eyes. Mycroft didn’t even need to be able to see him to know he was doing it. “By trouble do you mean crack dens?”

“Not entirely, but that would be a good start.”

“Your pet police officer is keeping me suitably distracted, don’t worry.” He turned to glance at Mycroft, who refused to react. “Did you pay him?”

Mycroft sighed. “I didn’t need to. I’m coming to the worrying conclusion that he doesn’t merely… how did you put it? Tolerate your presence for personal gain.” He smiled coldly. “Do try not to drive him away too, brother mine.”


	4. 2008

He left Anthea in the car with strict instructions to disturb him only in an emergency, and explicit guidelines on what constituted an emergency in a month that had been non-stop disasters. It was still the month of Greg’s birthday, even if he’d missed the actual date by weeks, and even though it was his own deadline and Greg would never mind, he was determined to see him the same month at least. He wondered, not for the first time, why their opinion of him mattered so much, then filed that to consider later and knocked on the door.

Emma greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and a bright smile. “There you are, love. Come on in. Greg’s running a bit late, but he’s left the office at last.” That was clearly becoming a familiar experience. She didn’t say anything, though, just took his coat and led him through to the kitchen. “I don’t think he’s picked Sherlock up on the way, but you never know with that boy. Tea, pet?”

“Thank you. How are you both?”

“Oh, much as ever. How are you? How was America? We’ve not seen you since you got back.”

He grimaced. “Ah, yes. I apologise. It has been…”

“God, you don’t need to apologise, love. I’ve seen the news, I bet you’re up to your eyeballs. And I’m guessing that a night of not talking about it will do you the world of good?” She poured boiling water into the mug even he had come to think of as his mug, because of course she’d had it ready for when he got there, right next to Greg’s. He couldn’t pretend to understand, but he also wasn’t about to pretend he didn’t appreciate it. She fixed him with a glare. “Are you sleeping alright?”

“Is anyone right now?”

She sighed. “Probably not. I’m glad we got the mortgage cleared off, I’ll tell you that. One of the few advantages of getting old.”

“You aren’t old.”

“I’m married to a forty-year-old,” she pointed out, laughing. “I’ve decided I’m going to start counting backwards.”

He chuckled. “From next birthday, or the one after?”

The front door opened at that moment and she darted back to the counter to put the kettle back on. Greg joined them a minute or two later, blissfully Sherlock-less, with his jacket already discarded somewhere and rolling his shirt sleeves up. “Evening. I thought you’d probably beat me here. How was America?”

“Productive, is I’m afraid the best I can say for it. Although it was good to have a few days in New York to actually see the city for a change. And being wined and dined on the US government’s credit card is always an experience, even if the company is less than sparkling. Sherlock seemed to enjoy himself, though. A little too much at times.” He joined Greg at the table out of Emma’s way and picked the giftbag up off the spare chair. “Many happy returns. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here, but I got you… a little something.”

Truthfully, he’d delegated it to Anthea in some desperation. Although they’d known each other for years now, he counted them as reliable allies and close acquaintances whose company he enjoyed, he was well aware that that was not how normal people, like Greg and Emma, categorised people. They had friends, lots of them. Greg’s 40th birthday party had been quite the occasion by all accounts. And he’d missed it but, still, gifts were appropriate. And there he drew a blank because he knew everything about the man, but hadn’t the faintest idea what to get for him. Anthea had gone out during one of his last meetings in America and come back with the bottles of whiskey Greg was now pulling out of the gift bag, and judging by the look on his face she’d made the correct call.

“Wow. These are seriously good whiskeys. Thanks, mate.” He was touched, pleased, excited, and he looked over at Mycroft with a gleam in his eye. “You’re going to help me drink these, right?”

“Gladly. The distillery is quite beautiful. One of the real Kentucky distilleries.”

“Have you been?” Emma asked.

He sighed. “No. Alas, there’s been little time for playing tourist recently. And less to come, I fear.”

“You need to make sure you take time for yourself, pet.” Emma was peering into the oven, so Greg was safe to roll his eyes at Mycroft, who smothered a laugh he didn’t understand. “The world won’t stop turning if you have a weekend off.”

It would have been nice to say she sounded like his mother, but Genevieve had rarely sounded so concerned for his welfare. He smiled ruefully. “Alas, the emails won’t stop arriving either.”

“There’s the truth.” Greg got to his feet and made for the Welsh dresser in the corner. “We’re on beer tonight. Want one?”

Mycroft accepted, and was pleased if not surprised to see a good selection of real ales rather than lager from the fridge. When Greg asked for a more specific opinion, though, he demurred to his skill and judgement. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to have lived in the days of the penny post, with six predictable deliveries a day. Alas, email is the trade we make for indoor plumbing and central heating.”

They ate, talked about anything but work, drank their beers, started on the whiskey in the living room and agreed to resume another night for more of it. When he finally said that he should be going, Emma hugged him and made him promise to look after himself, and Greg joined him outside with the excuse that he needed a word about Sherlock whilst they waited for a taxi. The door closed behind them and he lit a cigarette, offering one to Mycroft. “Are you really alright?” he asked once Mycroft had got his cigarette lit. “This must be a fucking nightmare for you.”

“It’s not exactly ideal,” he agreed, in the understatement of the century. On the horizon ahead of them the lights of the City of London and Canary Wharf lit the low clouds from below. Once a beacon, now they seemed a warning. “We’ll weather it, though. We’ve weathered worse.”

He grunted agreement and took a long drag, blowing the smoke out into the night. “What’s that line? All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that is given to us.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Tolkien. I didn’t have you down for a fan.”

“Emma likes the films.” He laughed. “Or rather, Emma likes Sean Bean.”

That was a rather more obvious state of affairs. “I always preferred Viggo Mortensen myself.” He finally deigned to acknowledge Anthea waiting for him by the car and turned back to Greg.” I had better go, before I have a curfew imposed. Thank you, for an ocean of sanity.”

“Again, not something we’ve been called before. But we’re here if you need us,” he said, and Mycroft recognised it as a promise. “And I’m only at New Scotland Yard if you need five minutes with a coffee or something. You don’t have to wait for Sherlock to turn up before you’re allowed to, you know.”

“I may take you up on that. Good night, Detective Inspector.”

Greg laughed at him, and waited until he was in the car before he went back inside.


	5. 2009

June was hot and dry, blunting Sunday afternoon in a dozy lethargy. Somewhere someone was mowing their lawn, there was the sound of tennis being played in a back garden, and further down the street there were shrieks from a water fight. Emma set the tray of tea and cakes down on the picnic table, in the shade of an apple tree dropping the last of its blossoms. With her hands free again she checked her phone and sighed. “Greg’s still not done,” she told Mycroft. “Hoping to be wrapped up soon.”

“We’ll just have to manage without him for a while,” he said wryly. “However shall we cope?”

“Oh, much as we always do, I think.” She forced herself to stop fussing and slid onto the seat opposite Mycroft. “You’re looking well.”

He looked her over in return and she remembered, again, how much more he saw than she did. There was no point trying to hide anything from him, never had been. He just smiled back at her. “Sherlock has been very low-maintenance lately. It makes a pleasant change.”

“I think I know where he’s been. Most of London, by the sounds of it.” As hard as she’d tried, that still came out sounding bitter. “They’re getting the job done though,” she added quickly. “And both seem to be happier for it.”

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. “I take it you’ve not seen much of him lately?”

“Sherlock?” She shrugged. “He gave me quite the fright last week. Was here when I got back, standing in the kitchen making himself a brew. He’d nicked the key off Greg again, bless him.”

“I meant Greg, actually.”

“Ah.” She wrapped her hands around her mug and sighed. There was either a lot to the question, or not a lot. It had never actually been hard to tell before, and the not knowing was a unique torment. “Not as much as I’m used to,” she admitted. “He’s got himself a reputation for dogged reliability. Can’t think why.”

He inclined his head with another of those wry little smiles. “Well deserved, but a demanding position. For him, and those around him.”

“It’s what we signed up for, love.” Emma tipped her head back to look up at the clear blue sky, and the vapour trails streaking across it. “My mum always told me not to marry a copper, and I did it anyway. I went in with my eyes wide open.”

“Your parents are divorced?”

She chuckled. “Yes, but that was because he retired and started getting under her feet.” And the fact that her mother had finally got fed up of living in the closet, but that was a story that didn’t need to be told out loud yet. “I make do. Afternoon tea in the garden with my friends,” she said, gesturing to him with her mug. “And dinner out with the girls from work. I’ve joined the local amateur orchestra too. They needed a cellist, I thought I’d dig mine out again.”

“That sounds lovely. You’ve wanted to get back to it for a while. And you’ve made…” He glanced down at her hands, just a flicker, “friends?”

“Yes,” she agreed, smiling more warmly than she felt. “Makes a change to hang out with people my own age. Spend too much time with teenagers and you forget you aren’t one anymore.”

“Well, the less said about my colleagues the better,” he said, eyebrows raised. “It is certainly good to get out of the bubble of normality, isn’t it?”

Her phone buzzed on the table between them and she picked it up quickly. “That’s Greg. He’s out of the office and on his way at last.”

Mycroft watched her. “Then before he gets here, whilst we have a moment to ourselves, I’ll be frank. Are you alright?”

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “I can’t compete with a dead seventeen-year-old, Myc. I don’t even want to. What he’s doing matters. I miss him, but I… It’s just different. Hard.”

“An adjustment period?”

“Growing pains,” she agreed, hoping he was right. “It’ll pass.”

Anthea set a cup of tea on his desk the following morning. It was a perfectly steeped Russian Caravan, with smoky notes and a hint of caramel, accentuated with a drop of honey. Not PG Tips. He shifted the handle a fraction of an inch and tried to understand why it filled him with melancholy.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one wondering, because Anthea stayed by his desk, waiting for instruction. He eventually picked it up and sighed. “What I am about to ask you is not remotely hypothetical, and I didn’t ask it, understood?”

“Of course, sir.” She leaned her hip against the desk, a practiced move that acknowledged the shift to something more personal than usual. “Is it about yesterday?”

He raised his eyebrows and sighed again. “Indeed. I find myself in a delicate situation. I believe Mrs Lestrade…” He paused again and looked down at his tea. “I could tell the Detective Inspector that Emma will cheat on him soon if she continues to feel as isolated as she clearly does. The summer holiday will be a challenge for her. Or I could tell Emma that Greg can’t and won’t change and that she doesn’t want him to, and that their marriage is therefore doomed. Either conversation seems easy enough, but both seems like an impossible challenge.”

Anthea didn’t argue with him about the likelihoods of those events happening. She just considered the question with the same serious thought he’d been giving to it. “We could arrange for his leg to be broken.”

He laughed, which was probably her intention, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whilst that would likely solve the problem temporarily, it is not a route I want to go down just now.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s little to be done. People will make their own mistakes, whatever we do.”

“Indeed. A shame.” He sipped his tea and smiled wistfully. “I never did learn to like PG Tips.”


End file.
